I've opened this blog with a poem that describes who I am. I run, I run from fear, but it lurks just around the corner. I fear my madness, the wraith inside me, the creative demon that is both beautiful and terrible. I cannot control it, so I take lithium, and it takes my creative madness, bottles it, makes it manageable, but blunted, no longer a sharp edge that cuts reality to pieces, but a butter knife that spreads a more cookie cutter creativity as outlet, but not transformative. I wish I could be Bill Hicks or Hunter S. Thompson, I wish I could bleed onto paper for the world to experience, but I cannot, I haven't the strength to control the terrible and beautiful demon. Instead, I choose life, normalcy, acceptance, a 9 to 5, something to hush the terrible demon, a routine of mundanity instead of the chaos of the sublime. Basically, I quit trying to change the world, and choose merely to live in it, to struggle daily with my neighbors and family.
The revolution drove me mad, but to loose the madness is certainly a loss. Madness and genius are fine lines, and the madness devoured the genius and defecated a broken and lost human, a dead human. I no longer want to be a genius, or at least, I will try to tell myself that. As a part of my identity, it became, but it broke me, set my soul aflame with a consuming fire that began to infect the rest of my body. Where shall I go from here? Back to Alabama to work on the work of living, and to fill my own corner of the world with love and kindness; I go back to become a real person. The world is not perfect and never will be, but love makes the unperfect more bearable. For now, the Grey Rider of Shee has tamed the wild terror that drove the genius to madness.
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